He retired to rest, and his dreams were filled with the images of Cecilia and Ellen.
When he awoke in the morning, he was discontented with himself—with the whole world: he experienced vague longings after excitement or change of scene;—he could not settle himself, as on the four previous days, to his studies—his books were hateful to him. He wandered about his house—from room to room—as if in search of something which he could not define, and which he did not discover: he was pursued by ideas only dimly comprehensible, but which were at variance with his recently formed resolutions of purity and virtue. He was restless—discontented—uneasy.
At length he remembered his promise to return to Markham Place. The idea seemed to give him pleasure: he longed to see Ellen Monroe once more;—and yet he did not choose to make this admission to himself.
With a beating heart did he cross the threshold of the house in which that delightful vision had burst, as it were, upon his sight on the previous evening. He was immediately conducted to the sick-room, where Ellen was sitting alone by her father's bed-side.
The old man slept.
Ellen rose and tripped lightly to meet him, a smile upon her charming, though pale and somewhat careworn countenance.
Laying her hand gently upon his, she whispered, "He will recover! Mr. Wentworth assures me that he will recover!"
"Most sincerely do I congratulate you upon this happy change," said Reginald. "I can well comprehend the feelings of an affectionate daughter who is allowed to hope that her parent may be restored to her."
"Yes, sir—and so good a father as mine!" added Ellen. "But it was all my fault——"